


The Picture Of Victorian Gay (Dorian Gray ficlets)

by Tiefling_Writes



Series: Dorian Gray ficlets [2]
Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Dorian is a himbo, F/M, Henry is just a bit chaotic instead of totally life ruining this time, High Heels, M/M, Marshmallows, We Stan Victoria in this household, actually dorian/basil is outright said at some points, and there was only one bed, half the time someone is drunk, i certainly don't, is this taking place in book!timeline? Who knows, like– it's almost embarrassing, theres a lot of obvious pining though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiefling_Writes/pseuds/Tiefling_Writes
Summary: A collection of ficlets about Dorian Gray, Lord Henry, Basil Hallward, Victoria Wotton, and others. Most fics will take place in a timeline where Henry didn't fuck everything up.I will update as my heart desires. Do not hold me to an upload schedule.
Relationships: (kind of..) - Relationship, Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward, Henry Wotton/Victoria Wotton, its sorta implied
Series: Dorian Gray ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838365
Comments: 9
Kudos: 31





	1. The Ankle Fic

**Author's Note:**

> context: Myself and a friend of mine were cracking jokes about Victorians and ankle– which somehow devolved into joking about Basil having an ankle kink. Please judge all you'd like because I'm sure you can't judge this more than I already have.

Henry was never one to proclaim his drunkenness. One should be able to tell that he held less of his inhibitions by how hazy and carefree he became, of course. Although, he never did seem to grasp just how similar his drunken self was to his sober self—albeit with less vocal control and less ill intentions. 

It just so happened that one day, Henry and Dorian were invited to Basil’s studio for the afternoon. The first hour was filled with pleasant conversation and very little drinking, for Basil and Dorian at least, whose glasses were both barely half empty. Dorian was telling some dull story, by Henry’s standards, which the latter coped with by draining a bottle of wine. 

There seemed to be a natural break in Dorian’s story when Henry cut in, his tone pleasant and smooth unlike the mediocre wine—what else could an artist afford, after all?— in his glass. 

“Basil?” 

“Hm,” the artist looked away from Dorian, blinking as he lost eye contact. “What is it, Henry?” 

“Have you ever shown Dorian all those ankle sketches of yours?” 

The artist turned bright red and stared at Henry in disbelief. Through a haze of embarrassment and no small amount of rage, he noticed that there was no devilish smirk upon his friend's face, just a pleasant grin of a man without a care in the world. 

Oh, he was drunk! That was a relief and a fright to Basil all at once. 

“Uh-“ 

“Ankle sketches?” Dorian’s voice held a note of confusion. What in the world could ankles be a euphemism for? It had to be one, right? After all, why else would Basil be so red? 

“Oh yes!” Henry continued in delight. “Really, the number of pages—I hope you forgive me for looking through your sketchbook, Basil—filled with ankles from all different angles is frankly obscene! Honestly, if he weren’t so shy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to remove your shoes next, Dorian. Do forgive me Basil, but you seem the type to take a liking to fee—“ 

“And that is enough wine for you!” Basil screeched, snatching Henry’s glass away and ignoring the red that splashed upon his floor. 

The artist, beet red, promptly fled the room, muttering some excuse of how he must put the wine away or check to see if the paint had dried. 


	2. First aid kits and hot stoves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cynic and an artist argue

“The world is shaped by our perception of it, Basil. Why else would man covet reputation, protect it like it were some golden treasure trove to sit upon?”

Basil looked longingly at his jar of paint water, still swirling with cadmium red’s and titanium whites, though the colour overall was a muddy grey. He was seriously considering chugging the damned thing if Henry kept on this topic of conversation. “Man has senses for a reason, _Harry_.” He finally said, unceremoniously dropping a brush onto the table. “Besides, you’re being unnecessarily contrary. We know not to touch a red glowing stove because we’ll be burnt. Our perception has nothing to do with that fact.” 

Henry stretched out on the couch, his demeanour relaxed and his shoulders hardly as tense as Basil’s. “Aha, ‘red and glowing’, again with perception.” He ignored the artist’s sigh–or perhaps he hadn’t even heard it–and continued on. “Crowds of people can be wrong– why just take a look at politics these days–so who’s to say that us, only two men, are not being deceived by our senses?”

A long and drawn-out sigh, followed by the artist raking his hands down his face. “If you’re so sure we’re being deceived, why don’t you touch it and find your answer that way?”

“Why don’t you?” 

“Because the stove is red hot!” 

The lord and the artist stared at each other for some time, each party waiting for the other to make a move. Henry looked like he fully expected Basil to admit defeat, either by touching the stove or by saying that Henry may as well be right. What neither expected, however, was a sizzle accompanied by a high pitched yelp. 

At once, Basil’s attention switched from Henry to Dorian. The latter stood next to the stove, switching between clutching his hand and shaking it. 

“ _Dorian_. Did you touch the stove?” 

The youth nodded, eyes squeezed shut in pain. “I can confirm the stove is hot enough to burn. So I believe the two of you can stop debating the matter now?”

“I suppose my curiosity is sated, for now,” Henry said with a chuckle, watching as Basil searched around for a first-aid kit. He was not worried about the lad, no, not in the slightest. In fact–though he hadn’t brought it up and never would–Dorian always seemed to heal quite quickly. Perhaps it was simply a perk of being young, even if he never remembered healing so quickly himself. Whatever the case, it certainly made the lad even more interesting. 


	3. A Sense Of Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian should be a model
> 
> wait–

An artist, a lord, and a pretty man walked into a private villa. This might be the preface of a terrible joke, it is not. Rather, this would be the set up of a lesson in why this particular trio should always be supervised. 

“I have to thank you again, Harry. You really didn’t need to invite me to tag along on yours and Dorian’s holiday.” Said Basil—the artist in this lesson. 

“Nonsense,” began Lord Henry, waving his hand dismissively. “You're a wonderful company, and you could use the time away from your studio.” 

He opened the door, revealing beautiful architecture, characteristic of an authentic Italian villa. Although anyone with half a mind would realize that it was only  _ built _ to seem so. If one were to truly look at the materials and design they would see that although it was beautiful, it was fake. As all beautiful things could be called, depending on who you asked. 

“Oh! This is wonderful, how on earth did you secure a whole month's rent for this place?” Asked Dorian as he walked in, marvelling at the fine marbled floors, at the large rounded windows. 

“Quite easy, really. My aunt was invited here some time ago, she would have been here in our place if her host hadn’t caught some illness.” 

“Illness? Is it serious, then?” 

“I didn’t care to ask, you can pretend it’s a common cold if that eases your mind, though.” 

“That’s horrible advice, but I may take it anyway.” 

-

A week into their holiday Basil sat in front of one of the villas great windows, staring at the slanting sunbeams with all the admiration of a poet. He created poetry in his sketchbook, with hatch marks and shapes, rather than stanza and prose. 

A faint clacking of shoes against the floor alerted the artist to Henry’s presence. 

“What are you drawing there, Basil?” 

“Nothing really, just a value study. These floors reflect sunlight very nicely.” 

“Of course. I’m just surprised to see that you’re sketching without your  _ muse _ . What was it you said to me once? That he is necessary to your art—“ 

A sigh, and the sound of a pencil being set onto the windowsill. “He’s not _ dead _ , Harry. My hands are capable of creating simple things without him, you kno—“

A crash. And a panicked yelp came from the other room, causing the two to hurry over. Or rather, Basil hurried, his eyes widened in worry, while Henry followed at a less-than-brisk-pace behind. 

  
  


They were greeted by the sight of Dorian. Dorian flat on his face, surrounded by what looked to be fallen hat and shoe boxes. 

“Dorian! Are you alright?” 

The man in question looked up, revealing that his face wasn’t any worse for wear, aside from the few tears welling in his eyes. “Nothing bruised except my pride, which I think is quite healthy anyway, after the compliments you both insist on paying me.” 

He began to push himself off the ground, looking sheepish. 

Henry has taken to leaning against the wall, observing. “What were you even doing?” 

Dorian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking much like a schoolboy who’d been caught doing something wrong. “There was a butterfly atop the wardrobe. I tried to reach for it, and my hand grazed against one of the boxes. I suppose that must have been the one holding the whole stack up, because well, you see..” he gestured to the boxes surrounding him, one of which was open. 

Inside lay red silken bootlets, with heels that reached about three inches. Golden decals decorated the silk and were revealed, upon further inspection, to be shaped like eastern dragons, weaving their way through cloudless crimson skies. 

Basil and Dorian hadn’t seemed to notice, as they were busy collecting boxes and setting back atop the wardrobe—though less precariously stacked this time. 

“Basil?” 

“Hm? What is it,Henry?” 

“I do think I’ve found a drawing—what’s that word you artists use?—prompt, for you.” He held up the lacy heels. 

Basil placed the last box back on the wardrobe and walked over, inspecting the shoes. “Yes, they are beautiful. But a simple shoe study? I think I’ve done enough of those for a bit.” 

“Oh god no! Just a painting of shoes, even in your style, would be dreadfully boring. I meant using these as a bit of a decoration piece, a splash of colour to the _ Gray _ that you always depict.” 

The artist’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of Henry’s suggestion. “You want _ Dorian _ to wear these?” 

“Don’t sound so appalled, aren’t you artists supposed to be the progressive types?” 

“What- no! I mean, not to the concept of a man wearing these, but to  _ Dorian _ wearing these! You’ve just seen first hand his sense of a balance, and you think he can handle himself in heels? He’d break himself, I’m sure of it.” 

Henry started to say something in an amused tone, before being cut off by Dorian and an indignant huff. 

“Don’t doubt me, Basil! My balance is just fine, in fact- Henry, would you toss those over here?” 

The older man obliged. 

Dorian, at once, sat on the ground and began taking his own shoes off, before shoving his feet into the silken heels. Luckily, he was small enough in stature that the shoes fit well enough. 

He rose slowly, and Basil cringed at every small wobble. Until Dorian was on his feet once again, looking a tad bit awkward, like a newly hatched duckling. But he still had something to prove, and by all the gods in heaven would he prove it. 

At first, his steps were slow and tentative as he approached the other two men. And he noted with delight that he was a bit taller than Basil now, and on eye level with Henry. He walked around the room, his steps becoming more purposeful, more at ease the more he stepped. Soon, he was rather like a proud peacock, which Henry commented with great delight. 

Basil had to agree, though his mouth was still wide open with shock. 

Dorian took a few more minutes to strut about, even turning on his heel at one point. There was quite the smug look on his face. 

The artist only sighed, and walked out of the room. 

  
  


Whether or not Dorian—at Henry’s urging—tormented Basil the whole rest of the day by wearing those shoes, that was something to be discussed at parties Basil didn’t attend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look up victorian high heels if you ever get the chance. Very strange looking shoes.


	4. Rollerskates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When rollerskates started becoming a Thing(tm), young adults would use it as a way to have more private dates so they could 'hold hands'. After all, how could a supervising grandmother keep up with two youths on wheels? 
> 
> I'm not making that up. I mean– seriously, look it up. It's fascinating.

“Basil! Henry! Come quick!” 

“You know I never do that, dear boy.” 

Basil and Dorian both fixed the lord with a look. Dorian was amused, while Basil looked simply exasperated with his old friend's antics. 

“You’re looking at me like I’ve said something wrong—which I certainly have, just not now,” Henry said innocently, which was a clear giveaway, he never acted innocent if he could help it. 

Dorian shook his head, bright sunlight catching and reflecting in his brighter curls. “Never mind that. I have a gift for the two of you and— don’t give me that look, Basil!” 

“What look are you talking about?” 

“That look you make when you expect the worst! It’s not another turtle this time, I swear.” 

Ah, the turtle. Dorian has a penchant for giving his friends rather.. interesting presents. Just the week before, he’d gifted Henry a peacock and Basil a turtle. The lord was as gracious as he could be about it and joked about naming it ‘Gray’, after Dorian. Basil, however, hadn’t had so much luck with the turtle. The turtle, which he teasingly named ‘Harry’ had bit Basil the second the artist had picked him up. 

Of course, the artist dropped Harry on instinct, which resulted in the poor turtle dying, and being laid to rest in his backyard, buried underneath a flower bed. 

“I should hope not, I’d like to avoid another murder if I can.” 

“Yes, well, this gift won’t result in any deaths.” Really, the bare minimum for most people, but the highest bar when it came to Dorian. 

“Get on with it then! Suspense is a fool's way of making the mundane seem exciting.” Said Henry, even if the shine of his eyes revealed that the so-called foolish tactic was working on him. 

Dorian whipped the sheet off of the boxes he’d been carrying with a flourish. The silken sheet landed somewhere near Basil’s paint palette, surely becoming stained. 

The boxes were open, and each held a pair of boots. The boots in question were of a plain, yet sturdy looking brown leather, both adorned with white laces and a slight heel. However, what made them interesting lay at the sole, where wheels were attached. 

“Thank you, Dorian. But what are they?” Questioned Basil, lifting his pair out of the box. 

Dorian beamed and walked— no,  _ rolled  _ towards Basil. How had he not noticed the boy was wearing wheeled-shoes of his own? 

His pace was a bit jerky, and once he had to hold his arms out to catch his balance, but he eventually bridged the short distance across Basil’s floor. “They’re called rollerskates! Isn’t it charming? Wheeling around instead of walking. They’ve just opened a new skating park— or rink, was it? Downtown, if you’d both like to come.”

Basil didn’t even try to hold back a chuckle. It certainly wasn’t what he was expecting Dorian to bring to the studio. Then again, his muse always seemed to have another semi-childish idea up his sleeve. “It certainly is. Tell me, how many times have you fallen already?” 

A pout, though it was clear he was trying not to smile. “I haven’t fallen once— ah!” Dorian had a tendency to stomp his foot when he was miffed. A boyish quirk that he somehow hadn’t aged out of yet. Unfortunately, stomping one's foot while in roller skates never bodes well, as was quickly seen when Dorian slipped and tumbled onto the tiled floor. 

Or, he would have fallen onto the tiled floor, had Basil not tried to catch and steady his friend. Moments later, Dorian had fallen the other way, and landed on top of the artist, sending them both to the floor in an embarrassed heap

Henry stepped forward, looking down at the two with a smirk on his face. “I hate to say this, but I have to be somewhere this afternoon. Perhaps another time, but I’m sure you and Basil will have fun _ skating _ on your own, hm?” 

And with that he walked out of the studio, his only acknowledgement of the pair's protest being a dismissive wave of the hand. 


	5. an ode to harry (the turtle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gifts Basil a turtle.
> 
> Or, Henry should just shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of these drabbles are technically connected. However, I felt bad about Harry's unfortunate death being glossed over in an earlier chapter so...

“A.. turtle?” 

“Yes! That’s exactly what he— I think it’s a he, is.” 

“Ah.” 

Basil stared for a good amount of time at Dorian, at the box he was holding, and at the little shelled reptile inside of it. For some reason, he felt almost uneasy. The turtle’s beady little eyes kept staring at him like it was trying to decipher the secret of his very soul. Or perhaps he was simply worried about  _ how _ in the world Dorian had gotten his hands on a turtle. 

He didn’t want to insult Dorian by refusing the gift, so he took hold of the box and tried to look grateful. The man in front of him was certainly fooled by the act, though the man behind Dorian— Henry, was certainly not. 

“He stares a lot. I think I might call him Harry.” 

Dorian chuckled. “First Henry names his peacock after me, then you name the turtle after him. Really, I think we need to find something to hold your namesake— maybe one of those sloth things? Or a raven.” 

Basil had to admit that he shuddered at the thought of more animals. Two was definitely enough. Though before he could voice his thoughts, Harry—the lord, not the turtle–cut in. 

“No, it’s better that an animal isn’t named after Basil. Men, except for the good ones, are practically animals after all.” 

“I’m flattered.” Basil deadpanned, setting the box on the ground. He thought it may be at least two weeks until Dorian forgot about Harry-the-turtle, so he may as well foster some sort of goodwill between himself and the little creature until that time was up. 

The artist leaned forward and took Harry from the cardboard box. He hefted it up towards face-level—why was such a small creature so heavy?!—and stared at it curiously before focusing back on Dorian and Henry. 

“I guess he is cute, as cute as a reptile named after Henry can be-  _ Augh! _ ” 

Harry had extended his neck to snap at Basil’s cheek. The artist, on pure instinct, let the turtle fall from his hands as he clutched at the small wound on his face. 

His recovery took only minutes, as Henry handed him a handkerchief to press to the cut and Dorian… well, Dorian didn’t help much at all, but he was moral support. 

“Is Harry okay?” Asked Basil, voice somewhat muffled by the handkerchief. 

“I’m alrigh—“ 

“Not you! The turtle!” 

“Oh, of course.” 

Basil sighed. “Thank heavens.” 

“No, I didn’t mean the turtle was okay. I haven’t checked.” 

Basil groaned and gestured towards the turtle—which hadn’t moved. “Well, would you check on him, then?” 

An almost sympathetic noise came from Henry as he turned the turtle over. The reptile's shell was cracked all over, little lightning bolt shapes running all along the shell's exterior. Furthermore, its neck seemed to be at an unfortunate angle. “I believe it’s dead.” 

“Oh.” 

-

“Dear Basil, I know you artists are sensitive, but you simply must get over it. Ignore your conscience for once.” 

A sniff, “I was under the impression you didn’t believe in conscience. What was it you once told me? Something of cowardice and conscience being the same?” 

“And I don’t retract that theory. In fact, you validate it right now! Is this not cowardice? Curled up and sobbing on your couch?” 

What comfort, if any, Henry might have tried to give was lost on Basil, who’s sobbing began anew. If it were anyone else, Henry would have gotten up and left by now. The artist was always an emotional drunk, of course, but he’d have hoped Basil would be over the reptile's death by now! Really, it was a pure accident, and had happened two whole weeks ago! Why was he so remorseful? Instead of leaving, though, he just sighed and continued to pat Basil on the shoulder. 

“I just- really- I can’t believe I’m a murderer! I killed Harry before he ever had a chance!” 

“No, you haven’t, I’m right here.” 

Those were not the correct words—not that Henry ever intended to choose the correct words—to say. As evidenced by the pillow that was promptly thrown at his face. 

“Oh shut  _ up,  _ Henry!” 


	6. A Parisian trend (and a hazard to society)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is probably going to choke one of these days

When Lord Henry walked into Basil’s studio, holding a bag and looking rather smug, there was some cause for alarm. 

When said man did not mention the bag throughout the first hour of himself, Basil, and Dorian talking, that was even more cause for alarm. 

When Basil finally sighed and said “Henry! Would you open the bag? I’d like to see why you look like the cat that got the canary.” and Henry reached into the bag, only to take out a smaller bag filled with several... something, confusion replaced alarm. 

“What’s that?” 

“Why don’t you find out?” The Lord took one of the squishy things from the bag and handed it to Dorian. “Taste it.” 

Dorian, who had complete faith in Henry, popped the candy—it smelled like candy at least—in his mouth. Immediately, the youths' eyes brightened, “Ooh—“ his gasp was replaced with a fit of coughing, as one shouldn’t suddenly inhale while eating. 

“Ahem-“ he cleared his throat once more, before continuing. “That’s wonderful! Basil,” he looked towards the artist, “you have to try one!” 

The artist, now convinced that this wasn’t some prank on Henry’s part, also popped one into his mouth. It was sweet and light, a tad bit sticky, like bread dough. “It is good.” He conceded. “What are they?”

_“Pâte de Guimauve-“_ began Henry. 

“Pardon?” 

“Marshmallow paste.” His smug look persisted as he continued. “They’re a confectionary trend, in Paris.” 

“ _Really, Harry?”_

“Of course. I don’t know why you sound so incredulous.” 

The two stared at each other for a few moments, before Dorian’s voice broke through their unspoken staring contest. 

“They’re very squishy,” he said, and the two could see he’d gathered several of the treats into his hands. “I’m certain I could fit at least fifteen in my mouth.” 

A sigh. Basil shook his head, knowing that if Dorian chose to do so there’d be no stopping him anyway. “You’re a hazard to society, my friend.” 

After which Henry chimed in unhelpfully. “And a coward. Do twenty.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I did research about marshmallow history out of curiosity and then I found that the beginnings of the treat's popularity apparently started in the late 1800s so obviously, I had to throw this together and yes it's also a reference to the tumblr meme


	7. Using the embarrassment of your youth to make good art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a friend's experience. I won't share the details of her story, but I decided to use an embarrassing time from her youth to make something.

Basil Halward liked to think that he was a responsible man. He took commissions and finished them on time. He didn’t frequent clubs, he didn’t immediately buy any pretty sketchbook that caught his eye, and he didn’t drink alone— usually. 

Currently, the artist lay face down in his bed. He felt like he  _ might  _ cry, or perhaps he only needed to eat. By some curse, his drunken state wouldn’t allow sleep. No, instead he was doomed to a constant stream of thoughts—of memories—running rampant through his head, past images that seemed to form in front of him. As he buried his face into a pillow, he could remember something that had happened once in this very room. 

_ “Good lord— it’s coming down in sheets now. I think I see pieces of hail on the ground too." _

_ “That’s awful. You can’t possibly go home with these conditions.”  _

_ Dorian had continued to gaze out the window, chewing at his bottom lip. “It’s so late already. I don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”  _

_ He almost laughed. “Impose? If you go out there now, I’m fairly certain a hailstone will impose upon your skull. I insist, as your painter and—“ a pause, “—as your friend, I insist that you stay the night.”  _

_ A nod. “Alright. Thank you.”  _

—

Dorian didn’t think himself particularly attached to anyone, nor was he one to hide his desires, however innocent or debauched they may be. That’s why his spirit was so.. free. 

So why was it, as he lounged alone on his divan, that he saw faces in his cigarettes smoke?

Harry would have called it a product of the dim lighting and Dorian’s  _ silly, romantic notions _ . After all, why should he see sparse faces in the clouds and smoke when he could go to a party and see many more? Though those cloud faces could certainly be called more substantial than those he’d see at a party— 

And Dorian would have stopped the lord before he could go on another of his meandering social critiques.

Still, even as he remembered Harry’s thoughts on the concept of seeing faces where there was none, finding meaning in smoke when there was none, he watched that grey mist waft towards his bedroom and he couldn’t help but  _ remember _ . 

_ “Please keep track of the time, you know I get too absorbed in painting to pay attention to anything else.”  _

_ “Hm? Of course.” Answered Dorian, despite not quite having heard what Basil requested, on account of being distracted by a stray moth fluttering about the studio.  _

_ Basil, true to his words, paid attention to his cherubic muse and only him. Only when he found himself squinting at his canvas, hours later, did he realize his light source was all but gone. “Dorian–the sun’s set, why didn’t you say anything–”  _

_ The artist was interrupted by a light snore and the thump of Dorian’s head hitting the wall.  _

_ “Oh.” Basil finished cleaning a brush before treading towards Dorian. "Dorian? Dorian?" he whispered, gently shaking the others shoulder, he was only met with another snore, before the boy almost slid off his chair.  _

_ Basil rushed forward to catch him, he was lighter than the artist expected. He looked down at the youth in his arms, feeling as though he were a prince, moments away from rousing a sleeping maiden from her century of slumber. Basil saw his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly and quickly he tore his gaze away. He was no prince, and Dorian deserved far better.  _

_ Carefully, he shifted, so that he now held Dorian in the way a groom would carry his bride—he reasoned that this was just the easier way to carry the boy.  _

_ The guest room of his house had been having some heating problems lately and putting Dorian on the divan would be rude—waking him would be even more so—he reasoned. So he made his way up the stairs, walking slowly to avoid waking his sleeping muse, then turned the corner to his bedroom.  _

_ He took great care to set Dorian down on the bed as gently as possible, before laying the comforter over him.  _

_ His gaze lingered for a few moments until he sighed and laid down on the divan across from the bed.  _

_ As Basil fell asleep, blue eyes fluttered open while the smallest smile graced an angelic face. Who would have known that childhood tricks could still work?  _

-

Basil tried not to concern himself with his friend’s affairs, metaphorical or literal. When Dorian seemed to disappear off the face of the earth for days at a time, or when he saw his friend across the room of a bar, whispering something to his latest fascination while they giggled and blushed, Basil told himself that his friend was fine and that it wasn’t any of his business what Dorian did in his spare time. 

Still, he could not help but worry for his friend. It seemed to him that Dorian was just so  _ careless _ . That crowd-charming smile and those doe-like eyes could only save him so many times, what of when his luck ran out? 

He thought that, a week ago, it almost had. 

_ “What’s the matter, Dorian?”  _

_ “Hm? Ah—nothing. I just have a bit on my mind.” _

_ “Right.” _

_ They were only on a walk, so he couldn’t put together why Dorian was acting so nervous. Fidgeting, glancing all about the street like he was watching for something, jumping at the slightest noise. He thought the sight was not unlike that of a schoolboy who’d smuggled cigarettes onto campus grounds; anxious, guilty.  _

_ But that was ridiculous. What reason would Dorian have to be guilty? He tried looking where his friend looked, in hopes of seeing what was causing him such stress. He saw nothing. _

_ They drew closer to his house and as he was about to bid his friend goodbye, Dorian almost bowled him over, running into the house at the same time.  _

_ “Dorian what–” _

_ The boy’s only response was quickly shutting the door behind them before turning back to Basil, a sheepish ‘I can explain’ expression on his face. “Someone was following us.” _

_ The artist's eyebrows furrowed as he moved towards the window. “Are you sure?” He asked, hesitantly peeking out from behind the white sheer curtain. “I don’t see anyone,” he stated before Dorian rushed to draw the curtains shut once more.  _

_ “He could still be out there, though! I—he wouldn’t just give up after all this time—“  _

_ Basil felt a sudden urge to lock his door, so he did. He leaned against the cherry wood barrier too, before interrupting his friend. “..this time? Has he followed you before—and who is ‘he’?”  _

_ That guilty expression flitted across his friends face before he shook his head as if to rid a fly from his hair. “It’s nothing! I-it doesn’t matter. He's only...” he paused, just long enough to be suspicious. “An old acquaintance with a grudge, he’s not dangerous—mind you—but ill-mannered and unrefined enough that I’d rather not speak to him.” What followed the end of his explanation was an awkward cross between a cough and a chuckle.  _

_ “..right.”  _

_ The rest of the evening was a tense affair, with Dorian constantly glancing at the window and Basil becoming increasingly worried for his friend’s mental state. By sunset, his hands were still curled around the cup of tea he’d been handed earlier– it was still half-full.  _

_ “Would you like to stay the night?” _

_ “Huh?” Dorian seemed to break out of his trance. _

_ Redness immediately spread over Basil’s face as he averted his gaze from his friend’s eyes. “I, well, it’s gotten rather late and dark and I thought you might be too tired to walk home..” _

_ Pale fingers tapped on the teacups handle. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. Besides, hasn’t your heating system been having issues?” Neither acknowledged that this was the same song and dance they always performed.  _

_ “Only in the rooms that don’t see much use. My room hasn’t had any issues.”  _

_ Fifteen minutes and several trips to the linen closet later, Basil’s bed had been evenly divided across the middle, like the dorm of two feuding university students. Except passive-aggressive glares were replaced with accidental eye contact from between the gaps between barrier pillows, and in lieu of snarled insults were the awkward half coughs of someone who intended to start a conversation before letting the first word die in their throat.  _

_ The atmosphere was tense, but Dorian eventually drifted off to sleep. It seemed that a day full of worry had tired him out. And Basil, though he wanted to stay away and ponder the day's events, was lulled to sleep by his muses light snoring.  _

_ If they both awoke that morning to find their pillow barrier thrown off the bed entirely, well, neither said a word.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a 5+1 but I'm impatient so it didn't turn out to be a 5+1.


End file.
